


And Many More

by Blucifer



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Birthday Sex, Fluff, M/M, Minho's Elimination, Mutual Pining, Non-Chronological, Past Minho/Jungkook, Present Minsung, birthday fic, but my hot take on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 12:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16597754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blucifer/pseuds/Blucifer
Summary: So far, Minho has had twenty birthdays, but this one? This one is special, and he wants many more like it.





	And Many More

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday 2.5 weeks late Minho

_Twenty_

Soft at his side, and soft swathed across his belly. So soft, that just having it rest against his skin makes him feel like he’s floating on a cloud. Smooth, so smooth that it doesn’t feel like fur against his skin but liquid silver. Draped over his shoulders, it drips down, down, down all the way to his ankles. “Minho.”

His name sounds _so_ sweet on the tongue of the boy in bed with him. A muscle bound, tabby striped cat boy, Minho has absolutely ripped him from the pages of his favorite Tumblr artist’s blog. He mewls under Minho’s touch and writhes on black satin sheets that are covered in fifty-thousand won bills. “Minho.”

Cause if he’s gonna dream, he’s gonna dream big right? He might get to rap sometimes, but he wants that new-money, cliché-fantasy, rap star fever dream.  

So, Minho wraps his fist around the biggest cock his mind can muster. Thick, veiny, straight from his teenage fantasy. Rubs his thumb over the head, and smears precum across the tip. “Minho-hyung—”

And it sends a shiver down his spine. Ok. Cool. His dick was gonna do that to him today. Just take one, small, arbitrary part of language, and just make it _nasty._

Fine.  

Minho peels back the chinchilla coat, exposing himself to cold air. Haphazardly, the cat boy pounces him, taking control. _“Min-ho—”_

Weird. Instead of short mewls, the cat boy now speaks in a _very_ familiar voice.

“Minho,” the eager, half laugh, half whine of one Han Jisung fills his ear.

“Wake up.”

So Minho does what he’s told. Opening his eyes, he’s torn from the king-sized bed and stacks of cash and transported back into a narrow bunk bed. Chinchilla coat whisked away, he’s only half covered with his blanket. The cat boy, ready to pounce, is replaced by Jisung.

Which isn’t _exactly_ a bad thing. Through two pairs of sweatpants, Minho can feel the unmistakable bulge of Jisung’s cock pressed against his thigh.

Doesn’t matter if his mind is still filled with static, Jisung rattles off a laundry list of details, goals, and plans, expecting Minho to string them all together right away. “Manager left to go to the store because we’re literally out of everything for breakfast. Chan and Changbin are working, Woojin’s in the shower, I chased everyone else away and put a chair in front of the door.”

“Um,” Minho’s mouth is dry, and he kind of needs to pee. But Minho doesn’t need to be _awake_ to understand that he’s hard, Jisung is here, and privacy is very, very hard to find. So regardless of how annoyed he may be at being woken up before the absolute _last_ second, or how disgusting his body probably is right now because he fell asleep before showering last night, he’s going to take this opportunity.

“Oh yeah, and—” Jisung slots his mouth over Minho’s, presses his tongue against his lips and demands to deepen the kiss. Minho can taste the thick taste morning breath on his own mouth, and it’s only heightened by the hint of toothpaste on Jisung’s breath. “Happy birthday.”

 

_Nineteen_

“Happy Birthday” Minho receives a text from ~~ex boyf~~ , his ~~former boss,~~ from Jungkook. Just Jungkook,  at 10:00 in the morning. It’s a photo of Minho sometime last year, ass in the air, bent at the waist, head between his legs, contorted into some weird warm up pose before sound check. No hint to what city they’re in, where they’d been, or where they were going next. Minho’s face looks puffy when he’s turned to look at Jungkook. His pupils are washed out from a flash bulb.

Jungkook sends him another photo, this one, obviously more recent. Smiling face in the foreground, and a castle in the background, he could be literally anywhere in Asia right now.  And like, he could look up where they’re at right now, but on principle-- “You should be here right now,”

It’s the kind of thing that someone else _might_ consider just a little bit insensitive, but Minho knows that Jungkook isn’t like that.

They don’t talk as much anymore. Minho could easily say that it’s because they’re both way too busy. But, there was always a certain amount of convenience to what they did. Passing in the hallway, stuck together in dance practice.

Jungkook might know that Minho’s back home for a reason, the reason being his _own_ group is barreling toward debut. What he doesn’t know is that it’s  not quickly enough. Jungkook also doesn’t make the connection that being _there_ means staying a backup dancer forever, and being _here_ means getting closer to living his dream.

Even though it doesn’t feel like that right now.

Minho’s fingers glide across the keypad, _BTS Tour dates,_ and it’s just a little bit embarrassing. Taipei. Oh. That might be nice. It looks warmer there than it is here.

Minho starts typing a response, before deleting it. Then he types a response…and deletes it.

In the end, he just settles on responding with his own selfie. He leans off the edge of the bunk, and takes a picture upside-down making sure that the row of bunk beds in his room is still in view. “Too busy living the dream,” accompanies the text.

“Still in bed?” Minho watches the little gray dots crawl across the screen indicating that he’s still typing. “You sure are.”

_Eighteen_

“Uh,” it’s hard to believe that he’s a year older than him, or that he’s got a few albums and awards under his belt. “Are you like…doing anything tonight?” Or that they’ve been fooling around for a couple of months now. Fingers hook into Minho’s belt-loop and pull him just a little bit closer, but Jungkook doesn’t make eye contact, and his face is crimson red.

“It’s like uh,” the tips of Minho’s fingers meet fine cotton, and the palm of his hand covers a big red box logo. “My birthday.”

“Do you have plans?” Jungkook is so close now that Minho can feel his breath on his lips. The kiss is brief, Minho doesn’t so much feel it as he hears the smack of their lips when they part.

From the corner of his eye, Minho can see that the practice room door is ajar. “C’mon you really think I’m that lonely? To not have plans? Someone’s taking me out for coffee.” Coffee, not drinks, because neither of them are old enough. Coffee, not dinner…because…

_Twenty_

Jisung reminds Minho of the cheesecake that Jisung buys for them from the convenience store in little clear clam shells with peel back cellophane across the top. Of course, Jisung is impossibly sweet. Moments like right now are proof.

Jisung kisses with too much tongue too fast. Spit pools in the corner of Jisung’s mouth, and it feels a little more than slightly gross in Minho’s mouth. But, because Minho’s decided to gorge himself anyway, they can’t, won’t come up for air.

Jisung is also better in his mind than in real life. Weeks and weeks of dieting, and then he’s at the store to get a drink, and it’s just _right there_ in the cooler _._ Weeks and weeks of promotions and practice, and then he’s _finally_ able to touch Jisung. He always remembers Jisung as being much better than he actually is.

Oh yeah, and one other reason why Jisung reminds him of 7/11 New York Style Cheesecake.

Jisung jams his hands down the waistband of Minho’s pajama pants and grinds his palm against his cock without breaking their smothering kiss that has no end, and it feels _so_ good.

He’s still somehow more satisfying than he should be.

Jisung rakes his shorts downward, and Jisung gasps at the feeling of cold air as it hits the tip of his cock.

Settling between his legs, but not before shooting Minho the kind of smirk that makes him want to kiss Jisung, and smack the smug off of him at the same time.

Lips on the tip of his cock, Minho can feel the tip hit Jisung’s soft palate, and he knows that it’s too much too soon. Of course Minho notices the slight gagging noise that escapes from the corners of Jisung’s mouth, but pretends not to notice.

It’s not Jisung’s fault that in the short time that they’ve been together, Minho hasn’t really had time to teach him how to suck cock _efficiently._ Not when Minho can’t keep Jisung’s cock out of his own mouth when they do have the time.

Recalibrate, pull back, bottom teeth graze against the underside of Minho’s cock, and _not_ in a good way.

Jisung can build him up so strong, and cut others down with his tongue. It’s a little bit strange, and a whole lot of confusing that he can be so good with his mouth, and yet so bad.

“ _Jisung,´_ is but a hiss between his teeth, and it’s accompanied by threading his fingers into Jisung’s hair to pull upward ever so slightly.  Because it’s _really_ the thought that counts.

What’s the old saying? No good deed goes unpunished? Must be, because Jisung misinterprets all of it for enthusiasm. Moving his mouth downward grants Minho more of the tug-pinch-sting sensation of teeth against skin. “Jisung,” he orders now more firmly, and then finally, “Han, watch the teeth.”

Jisung pulls off of him with a pop, and when they lock eyes, disappointment has ironed out all the usual little crinkles of happiness in his expression.

“C’mere,” cause there’s so much more that they can do.

More wet morning breath kisses are accompanied by the familiar weight of Jisung’s body on top of his own. Hand wedged between their bodies, Jisung strokes him in the soft, tentative kind of way that only happens right after you’ve kind of, sort of, messed up.

But Jisung’s always better with his fingers, soon the soft touches turn into something firmer, and satisfying.

A small moan escapes from Minho’s mouth. No sooner than it starts to feel _really_ good, there’s a crash at the door, followed by the sound of Woojin mumbling “sorry!” through the now cracked door.

In a fraction of a second, Minho whips the waistband of his shorts back up over his cock. Jisung leaps down from the bunk, striped boxers trailing behind him like a flag waved in surrender.

All Minho is left with is the disconcerting feeling of being turned on while having to pee.

 

_Nineteen_

Minho’s trying to play it off as normal. Yeah, he packed up _most_ of his stuff just a few weeks ago, left the trainee dorm for awhile, and now he’s back. Minho’s trying to play it off as normal. Because it’s a show, and it’s all planned. There were meetings about it, and not like a _real_ script, but there were things they were all supposed to do, and ways they were all supposed to react.

So, his chest shouldn’t feel tight, his stomach shouldn’t feel sour. No one’s really taking anything away from him.

But there’s a part of his brain that thinks…maybe they are. Maybe he isn’t going to debut, maybe he’d be better off in Taipei right now.

So, in the process of playing it off as normal, he finally hauls his carcass out of bed at noon, which isn’t normal. Then, he peels off his pajamas, and goes to practice, where on a normal day, he’d have been there since eight or nine. Not normal. Then, he proceeds to fuck up sequence so bad that by 1:27 he’s sprawled out on the practice floor with a cold compress on his ankle and a half dozen other trainees staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

The most normal.

But normalest of all, and he doesn’t care if that isn’t even a real word, is trying to explain why he feels the way that he does. He’s spent a few birthdays away from home by now. His phone has pinged constantly today with well wishes from friends from school and his friends that are still on tour. His mom text and said they’d call tonight when dad got off of work. His bunkmate vowed to bring home enough snacks to make them both fat enough to get booted from the company roster to celebrate…

This was _before_ he pulled a muscle. So, it was actually normal, not food based sympathy, which he’d actually be okay with right now.

No, the weirdest thing of all, is how _empty_ he feels. It’s only been a few days, and he misses the hell out of them. He’s been texting with all of them, even Changbin, who loves to leave him on read.

_Eighteen_

“Do you like it?”

“Uhhh-“ Minho’s iced coffee sits on a matte black table decorated with trinkets that are smooth and expensive looking. Condensation beads on the plastic cup, trickles down, and pools on the edge. It makes Minho nervous, like he’s done something wrong.

Which is probably stupid, because Jungkook turned around too fast to look at himself in the mirror and knocked his own Americano over. The staff acted like it was no big deal. Jungkook on the other hand pulled a little Fendi hand towel, and it was totally the kind you have to carry with you in Japan if you don’t want to dry your hands off on your pants. Not that Minho’s ever had to do that before. Then, Jungkook mopped it up, scooting the towel across the floor with a pristine white sneaker.

“Yeah,” Minho sighs.

Jungkook pulled an oversized sweater off of the rack and demanded he try it on.

“You should get it.” When they’re _almost_ alone in an empty boutique in an underground mall, Jungkook will get close without blushing, without stuttering, and without hesitation. He rests his chin in the crook of Minho’s neck, and they lock eyes in the boutique mirror. “I’ll buy it.”

His first ballet teacher would take a bottle of the perfume out of her bag and dab it on before practice. Then, she’d have him do stretches, resting the pads of her fingers against his hip or his calves while held pose.

The scent is branded into the place at the back of his throat because of that now and for forever.

Lips brush against the lobe of Minho’s ear. Junkook smells the very same way, like Chanel in a little square bottle. Whenever he that scent was in the air when he was young, it meant feeling grateful that his shame was tucked into a dancer’s belt. Now? The near Pavlovian response that he has makes the oversized sweater feel small and transparent.

_Twenty_

“C’mon.” Jisung’s got Minho’s slippers, the ones he wears downstairs to meet their friends at the doorman’s desk, in his hand. Jisung rolls up the sleeve to the Champion sweatshirt that looks like something he’d wear at one of their photo shoots to reveal a girl’s glitter pink cartoon squirrel watch. A gag gift purchased by Changbin at a Dasio on one of their stops on the way home from a fan sign, Jisung wears it every single day like it’s a Rolex. “We’ve got an hour and twenty-five minutes left of your birthday.”

“To do what?” Minho’s in bed already, IPad propped up against his knees, trashy romance novel on Kindle Unlimited open.

“Just,” Minho’s got that look in his eye. That sparkle that made Minho ignore every little shred of common sense that told him that dating his bandmate was a bad idea. The ember of mischief that makes him follow Jisung unconditionally. “Trust me.”

It’s cold outside. Not bitter cold, just the kind that bites at your nose and makes you feel alive.

When Jisung’s leading him down the street in his pajamas and a coat that cost more than he made in a month at his very first job at the café, he feels very, very alive.

“Lee Know,” pronounced short and off kilter so that it sounds like, “Lino.” Jisung brandishes his voice like a weapon in the cold empty street. It keeps passersby away and puts them in a bubble just the two of them. “I want you to know,” and then he licks his lips in the nervous, but not really, way he does when he’s about to say something real clever.

“Moves so damn fine,” and to accentuate his point, Jisung takes their linked fingers and twirls him around on the sidewalk, nearly sending him careening into a woman with a baby stroller. “Take it from a man that loves what you got, baby boy you’re a star, don’t let ’em tell you you’re not.”

It’d be stupid. Real stupid to kiss right now in the middle of the street. So, after Minho spins out and holds pose, Jisung just kind of holds him for a minute. Chest to chest, they’re close enough that Minho can feel Jisung’s breath on his mouth. “Real smooth Han,” and he means it when he says it. “But for real. I was like, two pages away from something juicy,” and he doesn’t mean it when he says it at all. Just lives for the moments he can get Jisung wound tight.

“Look, I didn’t have time to get you a good gift this year, and that sucks because we’re together now, but.” They walk to the end of the block, round the corner and they stop in front of a seven eleven butted up against an arcade. “I’ve got a pocket weighed down with coins.”

“Oh, I thought you were happy to see me,” Minho quips. 

“Whatever, I think I get points for last year, that scarf wasn’t from everyone. That was my cover story.”

“Really? That was wool.”

“I know! And super expensive. But for now,” Jisung opens the door to the arcade open for him to walk through. “For now, don’t expect me to let you win just because it’s your birthday.”

_Nineteen_

“What the hell?” It sounds more accusatory than it should. His voice cracks, and it’s definitely because he hasn’t spoken a single word out loud since that morning when everyone left.

“You’re on house arrest,” Jisung jams his hands into his pocket like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “And I uh-“ Hands extracted from his own pockets, Jisung’s fingers rake through the back of his hair. “Couldn’t get a jail break, so—I guess, I’ll tunnel in.”

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and it’s just long enough for both of them to second guess themselves.  It’s cold out; Minho’s only in his bare feet and his pajamas. “Come inside?” It sounds like the right thing to say.

So Jisung does, and immediately starts raiding the fridge. He’s going to be so disappointed when—

“All you have is soy milk and cabbage.”

“The lowly trainees mostly eat from the cafeteria. Don’t you remember?” Minho speaks to Jisung’s back.

 “Still…”

 “So,” Jisung emerges from the fridge with a stray leaf of cabbage stuffed into his mouth. Minho can barely hear him above the crunching of leaves. He swallows, and speaks “it’s your birthday. What do you wanna do?”

“I wanna put on a bad movie before everyone comes home and steals the TV.”

“Okay.”

They sit on the couch that’s too large for two people to sit on so close.  Jisung’s knee is pressed up against his own, and a cold clammy feeling is heavy in his palm. He just _knows_ that they’d be holding hands right now if they were with everyone else, and it could be passed off as a joke.

When they’re alone, and don’t have an excuse? Not so much.

Nothing really registers after the credits.

From the pocket of Jisung’s hoodie, he can see something made of dyed blue fabric. So, Minho does the only logical thing, and starts tugging on it immediately. “What’s this?” Thick fabric spills out, royal blue, burgundy, maroon in a striped pattern. He puts the scarf on over top of the lapels of his pajamas.

“It’s your birthday gift,” Jisung responds. “It’s from,” mouth purses for just a bit to long like he’s going to say something else. “It’s from us.”  

“It’s nice.” Silence for a moment. And then, Minho takes the scarf, unravels it from around one side of his neck, and drapes it across Jisung’s shoulder. His pajamas are flannel, and the scarf is wool, and too soon all that warmth turns into the cold clammy heat of uncertainty. Jisung’s so, very, very close. “Thanks Jisung.”

_Eighteen_

“You don’t have to. Jungkook says it like he means it, even though he’s busier smearing precum across the crest of Minho’s hip than he is with his fingers in his ass.

But it’s kind of the point of all this. Right? Coffee. A sweater that costs more than his monthly stipend. He’s seen enough movies to know what this is about. Also, he’s eighteen now, and everyone just assumes that he’s already done this…With someone else, and not just with his own fingers in the shower. “I want to it’s—” _Embarrassing._ “Usually not this hard. Just,”

Minho readjusts, rolls over onto his back, and bends his knees so that his feet are flat on the bed. Then, he squeezes more lube onto his fingers.

Jungkook just looks at him like Minho’s told him some grand secret.

Jungkook dropped a small fortune on Minho no less than an hour ago, and then brought him back to his luxury apartment.  Even so, it’s undeniable now. From the exposed ductwork near the ceiling, to the way that the bed butts up against both side walls, it cannot be denied that they’re still trying to fuck in a walk-in closet hastily converted into a bedroom.

 _Pressure. Pressure._ And then—

“Wow—” Jungkook looks at him with a mystified kind of slack-jawed wonder that scares Minho so much. Scares him, because he knows that look so well. It’s the very same look that Minho saw in his own eyes when Jungkook held him close and made him look at their reflection in the mirror. That look that says if he’s eighteen, Jungkook is nineteen. If he’s never done this before, then it’s entirely possible. Not plausible what so ever, but possible that--

“Stop—ah,” Minho foolishly, _greedily_ crooks his fingers as he speaks and interrupts himself with a moan.  Face blushing hot, “it’s embarrassing.”  

“You’re so,” Fingertips press into his thighs, and bend his legs back closer to his chest. “Sexy.”

Although it was difficult for Jungkook to get his own fingers inside, he’s so good at grabbing Minho’s wrist and pulling his fingers out.

Minho always thought that it would hurt more. And like…it hurts, but it doesn’t _hurt._ It’s like when Jungkook fists his fingers into the roots of his hair, and tugs backwards, exposing his neck. It’s like when he mouths deep purple marks into the soft skin of his neck, and leaves a bruise that throbs. It hurts, in a way that feels very, very good.

The glide of Jungkook’s cock feels endless, and Minho drowns in the sensation of _more, more, more._ But, before Jungkook can allow himself to get the way inside, Jungkook pulls out, ever so slightly. Roll of the hips, and pushes back in.

Jungkook rests his sweat dampened forehead against Minho’s own, and all he can see are Jungkook’s irises, deep, transparent, and hiding nothing.

 _It’s good._ So good. Like his cock is being touched from the inside.

Another roll of the hips and, “Oh god.”

When Junkook pulls back again, he doesn’t push back inside. When he grabs himself by the base, Minho already knows. When he pulls out, all Minho feels is sticky.

His own cock presses against his stomach; pre-cum is smeared everywhere.

_Twenty_

So on one hand, this is _kind_ of normal. Going back to their trainee days, the bathroom was like this…sacred place where feelings were okay. Turn on the shower, wait for the steam, and spill your guts without judgement. Last week, Hyunjin pulled him aside to tell him about his failed math exam. Last month, he and Chan sat here in a steam filled room for almost two hours, trading stories about being in the industry, and feeling just a little bit lost.

 _Kind_ of normal. He sits on the floor of the bathroom on the tacky shag bath rug that Woojin’s mom sent them along with some kitchen towels. Jisung’s sitting there too, trying to ignore the way that the crown of his head is dangerously close to knocking against the basin of the sink.

 “I uh, saw this in a movie once,” Jisung says with a lopsided grin. The kind that he smacks into place when his unending confidence cracks just a little bit, and he has to fill in the gaps. “Watched it when I was hanging out with this guy I had a huge crush on.” In his hand he takes a book of matches, pulls one from the book, palms the others, and strikes it. Resting on a plate stolen from the kitchen is a shiny gold wrapper, and on top of that, sponge cake, a whopping 5500 whole won, purchased from the convince store.

Jisung lights one candle, shakes out the match, picks up the candle, and lights the second. Then, he reaches upward and turns off the lights while he remains seated. “You think it’s weird. We can go out and sit with the others, but I wanted to be alone with you.”

“We spent all day with them.” Minho wants to be alone too. “And, it is kinda weird,” Minho confesses. “But like, we’re kinda weird. Which makes this kinda normal.” Then another confession bubbles just under his tongue. In the faint candle light, he can see Jisung’s lips, the round shape of his chin, and not much else. As the candles burn down, centimeter by centimeter, was drips down onto the frosting. “This is the best birthday I’ve had in awhile.” There’s more that he wants to say right now. He wants to tell Jisung how nice it is that he doesn’t have to leave after this. He doesn’t have to go back to a place where he technically lives, but it doesn’t feel like home. He doesn’t have to sneak furtive glances at Jisung and wonder what _they_ are, or if there’s even a _they_ at all.

“Really? Even after I beat you seven times at Taiko?”

“Yes really. So, like last year, when you came to visit me?” Minho can feel his face run hot, like he and Jisung are back at square one and they’re confessing their feelings for each other all over again.

“God, yeah, I wanted to kiss you that night so bad.”

“Fuck off,” Minho reaches over the cake and slaps Jisung’s leg. “That’s my line. I wanted to kiss you.”

“What? It’s true though?”

“God, if only there were a way to make up for it.” Minho’s fingers rest against the fabric of Jisung’s shirt.

“Make a wish Minho.”

_Nineteen_

“I guess I better…” Jisung stares at his shoes like they’re the most interesting shoes in the world.

Since they’re Oreo Yeezys, Minho kind of supposes that they are. “Yeah.” Minho stares at the tassels on his birthday scarf like they’re the most interesting things in the world. They fall through his fingers and tickle his skin, and so Minho kind of supposes they are.

“I hope you had a good birthday though.”

The whole twenty minutes they had on the sofa alone before the rest of the trainees barreled in from practice and piled onto the couch were absolutely perfect. “Yeah.” If this were the same bad movie they’d just tried to watch, Minho would kiss him now. Well…Really, Jisung would kiss him right now. Cause he’s the cool popular guy, and Minho’s the soft shy guy does ballet. “I really did.”

_Eighteen_

The second time goes a little bit better than the first. A whole song on Jungkook’s playlist. The third time a little bit better than the first and the second. Jungkook gets him almost there, and then jerks him the rest of the way off.

When he’s boneless and fucked out on the bed they eat all the melon flavored ice cream in the freezer. Then, when the wrappers are cleared away, Jungkook says in the gentle smooth voice that he fell in love with, “um, we kind of have this rule. People can come over. They can’t stay over. I’d offer to drive you home, I just got my silence, but…” Jungkook looks at the floor now, like he’s shy. “Yoongi and Seokjin are gone, and I don’t have a car. I can call you a cab though.”

Jungkook calls and pays in full.  Then, he walks Minho to the door, kisses him on the tip of the nose, and tells him simply, “happy birthday,” before opening the door out to the street.

_Twenty_

“Damn,” Jisung presses his mouth to the shell of his ear. Hot presses against hot, Jisung’s lips, and the spray from the shower. The sensation becomes hopelessly lost, until Jisung grazes his teeth along the ridge. Taking the soft lobe of Minho’s ear between his teeth Jisung bites down, sharp-sexy-hurt. “Baby, you’re fine.”

Minho sways into the touch, arches his back and splays his hands out wide on the shower wall. If he had to pick one thing. One little thing that he likes best about Jisung, it’s that he makes him feel like he’s dancing, even when his feet are glued firm to the floor. Jisung makes him feel like the person he always wished he was back when he was just Minho, and not Lee Know. Jisung makes him feel fearless to the point of absolute recklessness.

Sappy as hell, but Jisung saw that in him enough to bring it out of him.

So, he’ll show that side to Jisung freely.  “Tell me something I don’t know.”  

“I got it bad for you.” Jisung crooks his fingers, just as he croons into his ear. It more than makes up for the too rough, incredibly graceless attempt this morning. “Real bad.”

It would be strange, how Jisung can be so bad at it at seven in the morning, and so damn good at it at midnight. But he does the very same thing. Throws the switch, and doesn’t even know that he’s on.  

“I knew that too--ah“ It’s no secret that Jisung likes to talk, and Minho likes to keep up more than anything. But, Jisung’s making it really hard. He rubs in slow circles deep inside. Just enough pressure, just enough stretch, Jisung winds him tighter and tighter with each calculated curl of his fingers.

“I think you’re gonna cum,” playful, to the point of being childlike. Jisung reaches around his waist, and peels him back from the slick tile walls. Makes him lean back onto him, and wraps his hand around his cock.

Jisung winds Minho’s body tight in the very best kind of way, and there’s absolutely no stopping it. He does this thing with his fingers, stretching him wide, before dragging his fingers against that spot deep inside, until he’s absolutely at Jisung’s mercy.

Head rolled back onto Jisung’s shoulder, Minho stares at the ceiling until his vision becomes blurry with spray and the fluorescent shower light. When he closes his eyes, the pressure at the base of his spine blossoms outward. All he can see on the inside of his eyelids, shaky, sloppy handwriting, three little letters, choked out like a confession, “Han.”

_Twenty_

Minho sinks to his knees in the shower, even though Jisung tells him with a hitch and a whine, “Minho, you don’t _have_ to.”

By that time, Minho’s got the tip of Jisung’s cock in his mouth, and he’s settle into the sting of his weight resting on his shins against tile. He kinda does.

Jisung told him once when they first started fooling around that the first one doesn’t count. At the time, Minho just wrote it off as something a cocksure seventeen year old would just say to shrug off the fact that he got off in _seconds._

Now, Minho knows better. Jisung doesn’t have an _off_ period, and he says that as someone who won four out of five consecutive jerk off contests one rainy afternoon in Osaka between shows. Flick of the tongue, bob of the throat, Jisung’s twitching and cumming in hot spurts down his throat in no time flat, but doubts he’ll even get soft completely.

When they get out of the shower, hair damp and stuck to their scalp, Jisung leads him by the hand to his room, like he knows something that Minho doesn’t.  

Light flickers on, and the sight of the others, Hyunjin and Seungmin are nowhere to be seen.  Instead, they’re greeted with the sight of Jisung’s single pushed up against the bunk bed to create one large, freakish sleeping surface. Minho’s favorite blanket is draped across, and Jisung’s pillow peeks out from the fleece. The nightstands are banished to the far corner.

The others were busy while they were at the arcade.

“You owe some favors.” Their relationship is no secret, but it’s also not something openly discussed.

“Nope,” Jisung responds. “Maybe they just like you.”

Now that they’ve debuted, and their stipends raised, they could buy nice gifts for each other if they wanted. What they _actually_ give each other is far more valuable. Time.

In the winter, Changbin got his mom’s nice table cloth, and Minho went out and bought some candles. The rest of them made themselves scarce. Chan let in an SM trainee that Woojin swore he _wasn’t_ dating so that Woojin’s not boyfriend could make him extra spicy birthday chicken.

A few weeks ago, Changbin updated all the sound mixing software, somehow including Chan’s laptop, at the exact same time. Chan had no choice other than to call up Seungmin’s cohost and ask her out for dessert.

“I had to do Changbin’s chores for three days because of what I pulled for your birthday.”

“Yeah, you gotta learn how to negotiate” Jisung flops down onto the mattresses, but not before taking Minho’s hand and pulling him down with him. “C’mon.”

They just lay like that for awhile, Minho spooning Jisung, and breathing in his clean shower gel and moisturizing lotion scent. Telling each other that they have to go to sleep, and kissing whatever skin becomes an easy target.

Then, from somewhere in the blankets, a phone buzzes.

“One more birthday wish huh?”

For a moment, Minho debates sliding his finger across the bright red phone icon. But…Jisung knows that they’re friends. Thinking better of it, Jisung slides his thumb across the green icon.

“Minho!” Jungkook’s voice is effervescent. If the color pink had a sound it would be Jungkook’s voice. All the potential to be harsh red, but somehow something beautiful, pale, and refined. “Happy birthday!”

“You’re late,” Minho breathes into the phone.

In Minho’s arms, Jisung shifts, and pulls down the collar of his oversized shirt ever so slightly, as if to display the hickey on neck. Minho swears, promises, hand on Felix’s bible that he didn’t mean to leave it.  “We’re not on Facetime,” Minho giggles at Jisung.

“You’re with Jisung right now?”

“Nah,” Minho says now into the phone. “I’m that sad. I live with eight other people, but I’m alone on my birthday.”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Jungkook insists over the line.

If Minho were to ask right now, Jisung would say that he’s _not_ jealous. Jisung does everything in his power to make him think otherwise. Soft grazes of Jisung’s lips against his neck give way to wet, sloppy kisses against his collarbone. “He’s here. You wanna talk to him?”

The look of near panic on Jisung’s face is priceless. Who knew that’s all it took to get him to keep quiet? The silence on the other end of the line is shocking. He can never, under any circumstances let Jisung know the power that he holds. One of Korea’s seven favorite celebrities, brought to silence by one Han Jisung. It’d go straight to his head.

“Yeah, Well I want to talk to yours,” Minho barks into the receiver. Unfinished business. Sao Paulo. A fistful of bills that couldn’t have been worth more than a few thousand Won. A forgotten wallet, and an insatiable sweet tooth for the syrup, shaved ice, condensed milk treat that that they ate until they were sick in Brazil. “Jimin _owes_ me money.”

When wet, sloppy kisses aren’t enough, Jisung undoes the top two buttons on his satin pajamas. Jisung’s hand dips inside, and makes his peppermint soap cooled skin burn hot.

“He won’t listen to me. You’ll have to tell him yourself.”

“He leaves me on rea-ah—”

Jisung takes Minho’s nipple between his fingertips, and alternates between tweak-caress-tweak motions that drive him crazy. The glare that Minho shoots at Jisung is all want, and no venom. He can tell by the way that Jisung smiles back at him. He keeps talking anyway. After all, it’s still kind of, almost, his birthday. “Unless he wants a discount code for Shinsegae, and then we’re best friends again.”

Jungkook laughs on the other end of the line. “Tell him yourself. We’ll have to double date sometime.”

“Only if you’re buy-ing.” And now, of course Jisung goes on the retreat. At the mere mention of food, Jisung is on his very best behavior. Jisung’s hand retracts from Minho’s hard and swollen nipple. The absence of Jisung’s touch is somehow much worse. “Ah-Jungkook. I have to go.”

“Alright Minho,” Minho can hear the smile in his voice. “Happy birthday.”

_Twenty_

“We don’t have to right?” Jisung extracts a shiny foil packet from his pajama pockets like it’s his phone or his earbuds and settles in-between Minho’s legs like he belongs there.  

“Don’t have to what?” Minho’s voice holds just a sliver of indignance. Jisung’s jealousy feels good on Mimho, all hot kisses and stolen touches on Minho’s skin.

“Double date,” Jisung whispers. Taking the packet between his fingers, he tears off the top corner with his teeth.

“Han Jisung, are you jealous?” Minho says this as he wraps his legs around Jisung’s middle, pulling him closer. Cock pressed against cloth pressed against cloth pressed against cock, it’s like this morning all over again.

 “Not exactly,” The thin strip of foil bobs between Jisung’s teeth as he talks. “I don’t care if you have an ex-boyfriend, or a dozen ex boyfriends. I mean I do, but—” Forward roll of Jisung’s hips and all that matters to Minho is the slow tug of friction as their cocks rub against one another. For a moment, Jisung loses himself in the drag that feels so good, but isn’t enough.

Instead of moving forward, they stand still in time. Kissing with lazy open mouths, Jisung doesn’t have a question, and it’s like permission for Minho to not have an answer.

Only when they’re both trembling and the soft whimpers that seem so inconsequential build and build until they’re drowning in viscous sounds do they remember that there’s something _more._ Something that they don’t get to do that often. Only then does Jisung move to pull down his faded cotton pajama pants. Minho knows that he’s got to loosen his grip on him to move forward, but being apart, even for a few seconds seems unbearable.

Somehow they manage, sliding out of their pajamas just long enough to get naked.

 The way that he moves is awkward, graceless, in a way that only Minho can be around Jisung. But it doesn’t stop him from sitting up, taking the wrapper from Jisung’s fingers, “let me.” He rolls the condom down Jisung’s cock with trembling fingers, and then takes time to rub over the head with the pad of his thumb. Once. Twice. Again and again until the reservoiur no longer catches against his skin but glides against the tip of Jisung’s precum slicked cock. “Min-ho,” slides off Jisung’s his breath, uneven and needy.

Push down. Slide forward. They move together on the mattress.

“It’s--.” Jisung finally fucks into him, and it’s slow in only the way Jisung will be around Minho.  Thoughts still racing, but the heat, and the wet, and the drag force him to slow down. “It’s weird.”

What happens next is something ripped right out of the sugar spun novels and movies that he started rotting his brains with ironically years ago, and can’t stop doing seriously now.  Minho wraps his legs back around Jisung’s middle and draws them together, somehow closer. Jisung links his fingers with Minho’s to support his weight and presses him against the mattress.

“I don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to be with you,” Jisung admits, picking up their conversation from moments ago.

They’re pressed so close that Minho can feel Jisung’s stomach flutter against his own. With each short, disjointed breath, Minho can feel Jisung’s cock twitch deep inside of him, like some kind of wonderful secret.

“But, don’t like thinking of anyone else being with you either.” Jisung presses his sweat dampened forehead against Jisung’s and they sli-ide, skin against skin against each other bumping noses, knocking teeth, until they finally manage something like a kiss.

Words spill out like he knows that it’s a matter of seconds before they cum, and the wall between them work, group, work, is smacked back into place. “It’s so weird,” Minho responds. Words spill out like the pinprick tears that well up in the corner of his eyes when Minho sets a pace that is both gentle and demanding, waiting until every cell in his body hums with Jisung’s infectious energy. “But it’s hot, and I feel the same way.“

 _I love you_ would be a much simpler, but Minho’s a dancer. Saying it with his body seems so much simpler.

In that moment, some drawn tight, threadbare cord is cut, setting them both into motion, a wild and asynchronous tangle of limbs, and tongues, and stares that say all the things that they cannot articulate. His cock trapped against Jisung’s stomach is both too much and not enough at all when combined with the sensation of chills-down-his-spine, and sting in his ass when Jisung strokes him from inside.

Jisung bites his own lower lip so hard that Minho can see it purple into the off black shade of bruising. Screws his eyes shut, and makes sure-absolutely-sure that he won’t pop until Minho goes first. “Can I come please Minho?”

That’s all it takes for Minho. Grinding against Jisung and chasing the sensation as far as it will go, orgasm is torn from him. Minho comes across his stomach, his chest, errant drops hitting the underside of his chin. All of this, accompanied by the filthy hot sensation of Minho pulsing and emptying inside of him, separated by the thin barrier of the condom.

_Twenty, and One Day_

Minho should do more to clean up. At least, he should do more than mop up with his discarded pair of satin pajama pants. He can already feel the fine hair on his stomach become tacky. For now, all he can do is enjoy the warm, dull ache in the place where he and Jisung were joined just moments ago.

“Jisung.”

No response. Jisung always passes out after sex. Not blowjobs, or fervent rutting against one another, but real sex where he bares his heart and pours out his soul.

“Jisung.” Minho should let him sleep. They have to be up so early tomorrow but…

Jisung makes an incoherent noise laden with grogginess. “Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“For my presents. For being my boyfriend. Being amazing I guess.”

“Next year,” Jisung. “Next year we’ll do something big. Go to that fancy restaurant, Sabiru.” Jisung is delusional. “Go to Paris.”

Minho kisses the crown of his head.

“I’ll kiss you on live television.”

Maybe not all in the same year. Maybe not next year, or the year after, but Minho believes every single word.


End file.
